


Behind Blue Eyes

by all-or-nothing-baby (BundleOfSoy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: #SorryNotSorry, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, But He Needs Dean To Understand, But Remember..., But This Is Mid-break Up, Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Castiel Left Dean, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel Wants To Go Home, Castiel's Musical Education, Coda, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Needs Therapy, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Episode: s15e06 Golden Time, He Just Cannot Deal, He Just Needs Dean's Love, Hunter Castiel (Supernatural), Inspired by Music, Lots of..., M/M, Nice Ones, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Poor Castiel (Supernatural), Poor Dean Winchester, Post "The Breakup", Sad Castiel (Supernatural), Sad Castiel/Dean Winchester, Song: Behind Blue Eyes, The Who - Freeform, and, dammit dean, no happy ending, soooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22391962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundleOfSoy/pseuds/all-or-nothing-baby
Summary: Alone and in an unfamiliar place, Castiel is held hostage by both the passage of time (something which has never bothered him before) and his own tangled emotions—until something plays its part in unpicking them, helping him to see things a little clearer.But still, it hurts.Like hell.ORAn angsty coda for s15e06, "Golden Time".
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Behind Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiberAmans214](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberAmans214/gifts).



> Written for a round of drabbles and one-shots for @angsty-angstweek (created by the lovely Sheya A.K.A. @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover) on Tumblr.
> 
> Inspiration was taken from The Who's song, "Behind Blue Eyes" from their 1971 album, Who's Next?

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Castiel sits staring at and slowly turning his cold, quarter-cup of quite terrible black coffee.

_Quarter to the right; three quarters left; back to centre; repeat._

According to the nineteen-seventies-made _Abelo_ clock on the wall, he has now been ensconced in this squeaky vinyl booth by the large and grubby window for precisely one hour, eleven minutes and forty-three seconds.

_Forty-four; forty-five; forty-six; forty-seven..._

The dismal truck-stop diner, _Susie’s_ , just outside of Soda Springs, Wyoming, is seemingly not a popular establishment. The server— _Susie?_ Castiel didn’t look at her name badge—has refilled Castiel's cup twice by this point. She’s now leaving him be to stare blankly out into the gloaming and juxtaposing amber glow of the newly blinking street lamps.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Castiel has counted sixty-one vehicles drive past in the time he's spent in this dreary place.

_Sixty-two._ This one is a motorcycle.

_What now?_

He pointedly ignores the question.

_Yet again._

Having no answer to it is beginning to irritate Castiel.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Sixty-three_. This latest car is a vintage model. It's big and black and shiny and not unlike—

Castiel clears his throat, peering down at the coffee. He now knocks it back, pouring down the stale bitterness in one gulp, wincing slightly before placing the cup back onto the Formica table-top.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Quarter to the right; three quarters left; back to centre; repeat._

Whilst aware and fully able to hear all that's occurring both inside and outside of this food establishment which he is currently wasting his time in, Castiel hasn't really _listened_ to anything particular in a while, choosing instead to let the sound waves, or _ambience,_ simply wash over him like a breeze. _Zoning out_ was the term that Dea—

Castiel shifts in his seat, lips pressed together into a firm line. He's just... he needs to be occupied, is all.

_Quarter to the right; three quarters left; back to centre; repeat._

He tries to fill his head with only thoughts of the nearby case he'll begin work on the next morning.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Then at eight twenty-seven, twelve seconds post meridiem and counting, a new sound slices through the monotony. A vaguely familiar sound.

Castiel is now very much listening.

  
  


_no one knows what it's like_

_to be the bad man_

_to be the sad man_

_behind blue eyes_

  
  
  


Sardonically amused, Castiel almost laughs aloud at the uncanny parallelism to his circumstance which he hears in the lyrics of the song being played through _Susie’s_ speakers.

This one could have been written for him, as Dean— _he._ As he would've said.

However, the sharp blade of such cosmic mockery then cuts painfully deeper with the cruel words that follow:

  
  
  


_no one knows what it's like_

_to be hated_

_to be fated_

_to telling only lies_

  
  
  


Filtered into quiet, tinny musings via the diner's kitchen radio, all amusement previously attached to the song lyrics becomes at once sickly and beguiling to Castiel.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Billions of humans know what it is to be hated. The species hate on a level that can rival even Lucifer's hatred of his—and Castiel's—Father. The atrocities people will commit in the name of hatred is unparalleled. But for Castiel to be hated by... _him._

_The only one who matters_

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Sixty-four._ A Winnebago.

Castiel thinks about _not_ taking his phone out from his coat. Ruminates over _checking_ or _not checking._

He turns his empty cup again.

_Quarter to the right_

_Sixty-five._ A modern, silver two-seater, he doesn't know the model.

Ignoring a glare from the previously friendly server—who has no doubt now become disgruntled at his lack of a food order—Castiel slips a hand slowly into the pocket of his trenchcoat like he's performing some unsavoury act. Runs a secret fingertip over the slim edge of his cell.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Three quarters left_

Castiel's hand grips the cool casing.

_I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Flips it over in his palm.

_Sixty-six_. A truck pulling in.

_Back to centre_

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

Castiel closes his eyes and he can hear it again, like Chopin's Sonata No.2…

_"The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong."_

_"Yeah, and why does that something always seem to be you?”_

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Repeat_

The phone is half-way out of his pocket…

  
  
  


_But my dreams they aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be_

_I have hours, only lonely_

_My love is vengeance_

_That's never free_

  
  
  


Castiel was wrong. The song isn't only about him. It is _not_ only he who has done wrong. It's not only up to Castiel to fix what's broken. It wasn't him who broke it, not this time.

  
  
  


_No one knows what it's like_

_To feel these feelings_

_Like I do_

_And I blame you_

  
  
  


This part of the song is all Dean's.

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Sixty… how many?_

_tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_

_Quarter to... the right? Or is it_ —

Castiel loses his grip on the cup and it slides along the Formica, careering from the table and falling to the floor, the ceramic handle breaking as it lands just off to the right of his feet.

  
  
  


_No one bites back as hard_

_On their anger_

_None of my pain and woe_

_Can show through_

  
  
  


And, just like that, the song is Castiel's again.

He allows his phone to slide back into his pocket and now filters out all noise, not wanting to hear the rest of the words. Instead, he tunes into the white-noise of angel radio, fully aware he won't hear anything from his own near-extinct kind. There are too-few left of those he had once thought of as his brothers and sisters. Heaven is fading by the day.

In all of creation, Castiel has never felt so alone.

After retrieving the cup and its handle and placing them down gently on the table-top, _Susie_ or _not Susie_ glares at him once more. This time, Castiel glares back.

The server doesn't look in his direction again.

Forcing himself to tune back into the diner—back into the world—Castiel heaves a breath he doesn't have to take but has never needed quite so much.

He leaves enough bills on the table for both the coffee and the broken cup, also leaving his last dregs of hope behind for what once was.

_Move on, Castiel_

He steps out into the evening and as the diner door is closing, he just catches the last verse of The Who song, the very same one a friend—the man Castiel had thought _loved_ him—once played to him through shared earplugs.

  
  
  


_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Chopin's Sonata no.2 is more commonly known as "the death march" and was tradtionally played at funerals.
> 
> If you leave me a comment, I promise I'll get back to you eventually...
> 
> Come find me on Dumblr @all-or-nothing-baby : )
> 
> Lucy <3


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